California Dreamin'

It's a homely purple plastic mug with Target provenance. Most of the year, it is relegated to a shelf in the corner kitchen cupboard where it awaits being plucked for usage. Into the freezer it will go and soon the liquid that resides in its core will harden, the mug will acquire an ice sheen and it will be ready for the owner who's moved far away. Each visit she seems a bit surprised that the faithful mug is ready to be filled with her personal ambrosia, also known as unsweetened iced tea. So it was on Sunday last when a conversation had morphed into a week-end trip so fleeting it felt dreamlike.



Sunshine and roller coasters, Mexican food and a just barely warm enough pool in which to catch a quick tan. How to resist? With relentless rain and daily temperatures stuck in the '60's, a northwest fall season can be challenging for someone whose childhood milieu consisted of plenty of palm trees, mostly brown terrain and an implacable sun.

Dismiss any thoughts of exhaustion and impracticality. Call the parents to see if the guest room is available. What a question!

"You're coming in two weeks?" they ask with smiles you can almost see through the drops.

At her former home, we, the parents, realize that the trip isn't about us. Geographically we just happen to live two hours south and east from the real attraction. Magic Mountain Amusement Park beckons and retains the galvanic magnetism first encountered during her teen years.

The serendipitous journey began during the evening of an especially difficult work day. Houseguest Alex casually mentions that she's pining for the roller coaster nirvana. Almost immediately, her hostess's fingers streak across the keyboard, checking flights, comparing prices. Temptation looms as numbers appear on the screen which can only be described as reasonable, maybe even cheap. She and the husband will travel to SoCal. Tickets are purchased; the itinerary shared.

A simple plan which includes the unnatural necessity of arising at 5 am for a 7 o'clock departure. Adventures always include some discomfort. Fly JetBlue to Long Beach where Alex awaits. Drive north on I-5 and connect with Scott. Arrive at the park entrance not long after Saturday's opening and come prepared to be engulfed in unrestrained fun.

And it nearly happened just like that except for fog which intervened and caused 90 agonizing, frustrating minutes to be wasted endlessly circling Catalina Island. Finally, there's touchdown.

During the time period between discussion and arrival, the parents have been busy. Traditions must be respected for all visits, despite the truncated duration. The purple mug is in place. Two unturkey sandwiches, made-to-order, have been acquired from the local health food store. A newly renovated guest suite gleams with recently purchased bedding, lamps, and towels. She doesn't know about this upgrade and will be astonished at the transformation. We realize she'll loathe the color scheme, shades of sand and dirt. Really, dirt is the best descriptor. Maybe the 500 count sheets will be soothing and the geometric design comforter very satisfying.

Cans of Cactus Cooler,a citrusy soda only available in California, are chilling. Shelf space is shared by two varieties of Coke and just the right containers of vanilla yogurt. A fresh supply of 'fakin bacon' is tucked in the freezer door for the vegetarian daughter.






Faint aromas permeate the rooms. One can detect glass cleaner, Soft Scrub, freshly laundered linens. Glass patio tables glisten with all debris removed. Flowers freshen the tranquil bathroom and adorn the dining room table. Floors are mopped, carpets vacuumed. We're ready and waiting.

At various intervals during the day, there's a call.

"Having a great time, don't plan on waiting up for our arrival."

Really? We were hoping she'd tire of the rides or fill her quotient or want to see us sooner.... Nope, the lure of just one more terrifying trip is too much to ignore.

After 10 p.m., there's another call. They're leaving. Finally, I think. So soon, she laments. Actually, they're still in the park and it'll be quite a while before Alex's car is in our driveway.

Reluctantly, we succumb to sleep. I slumber fitfully, fretting about the long drive and the exhausted occupants.

When I'm fully awake the next morning, I know they're in the house. Perched on my bathroom counter is a green bag. It contains a bottle of my favorite lotion. Bought at the Portland Airport. Sweet girl. She remembered.



Outside the guest room door is a small pile of laundry. She's definitely home. Whenever any of her friends are overnight visitors in this house, she warns them.

"Don't leave anything on the floor. If you do, the next morning you'll find it washed and dried and waiting for you in a neat pile."

I consider such tasks a pleasure, not a burden.

While I wait to see her precious face and lavish her with too many hugs, the laundry is done. I type quietly and peer at the clock. Didn't she say she'd be up by 9? She is. A bit worn but already wearing her swimsuit. That's my girl. Never waste a minute of the sunshine. It's so rare in her life.



Her shoulders hurt from the repetitive use of harnesses which strapped her to scary (definitely for me, maybe for her too) seats just prior to the jolt of flying through the air. I really don't want to hear about lying face down, dangling above the ground. This is fun? Apparently yes.

She reports that the threesome enjoyed a floor picnic upon arrival around 2 am. With an aqua striped beach towel spread on the carpet, they gleefully dined on unturkey sandwiches. A sublime conclusion to an unforgettable day.

Water can't wait and quickly she's diving. Is the shock of the liquid's temperature less daunting that intense centrifugal force? She embraces both with equal vigor.




Bobby and Alex are awake. Maybe the splashing resonated or more likely, the sunshine could not be postponed. He's suitless so feet and legs are dangled in the water as the outside temperature increases to 109, nearly 50 degrees warmer than his northwest home. Alex joins her friend, Caitlin, in watery paradise.



Breakfast is free flowing, soon to be interrupted by lunch. No matter the compressed visit, it must include Mexican food from Las Casuelas. It's been a favorite since the days when she dined in a high chair and was offered not enchiladas or tacos, but strained peas and peaches. No time for the restaurant scene, however. This order will be take-out.




Post meal, there's time for another dip. A bright pink tube looks enticing. Seems a bit small, a tight fit. Well, of course, it's child-sized. She floats, refuses to wear sunscreen. Tells me she grew up here. I think she wants a bit of a burn to show the Oregon occupants.

I've captured the roller coaster crew. Somewhat refreshed, steeped with stories.




It can't be that the afternoon is fleeting. Erin arrives and the young people talk of growing tomatoes, owning a house, graduate courses. I stand to the side and recall vividly earlier days. Middle school with its traumas, high school with its hopes. Now they know how their futures unfolded.




One more photo before we drive to the airport. This one won't be shared. It's being sequestered and will arrive along with Christmas cards in December. It's perfect. The four of us, smiling on a sunny September afternoon.

Cactus Coolers fit the car's cup holders and soothe the two hour journey. There's no luggage to check. A blue Addidas bag and a backpack. The 'Made in Oregon' bag stuffed with lemon bars. The couple is heavy with matchless memories. They'll return in just 99 days. Am I dreaming?